Identity
by insinuoanimus
Summary: The line between reality and fantasy are often blurred. If not invisible.
1. Identity: Chapter 1

**Title: **Identity   
**Author: **InsinuoAnimus   
**Disclaimer: **Know the drill, love the drill, use the drill. None of the characters are mine. Sorry.   
**Summary: **The line between reality and fantasy are often blurred. If not invisible.  


-------------------- 

_{ like a madman laughing man at the rain_   
_a little out of touch, a little insane_   
_it's just better than dealing with the pain }_  
  
He had known. 

He hadn't let onto the others that he had known, but deep down he had known. He didn't need to sing, he didn't need the powers that be to send a vision, he didn't need a psychic to tell him, because he had already known. It was a feeling that rumbled at the pit of his stomach. _Spend these days as if they are your last. _And it was true, wasn't it? For him, it had been his last days. For Gunn, too. Wesley wonders if Gunn had known too. Had Gunn known that he wouldn't survive the big battle? The final battle? Gunn had always known he would go out fighting. Gunn had told him that once, a time when they were the best of the friends, a time when Gunn called him English and Wesley found it endearing. Gunn had told him that he wouldn't die an old man, but he would die young, he would die fighting. Maybe it was the warrior in him that wanted to die a hero, or maybe it was just settling for knowing the truth, for not fighting against their fate. They wouldn't survive the final battle. 

Him, Cordelia, Fred, Gunn. They had all been a part of the family, the circle of unexpected heroes, that fought with Angel. They fought with Angel, they loved with Angel, they suffered with Angel. But none of them made it through the final battle. One by one, they had all died. Only Wesley and Gunn had made it to the final battle. Wesley was the first one to go, he died in the arms of Illyria, staring up at the form she had taken, staring into the beautiful lie he had asked her for. Wesley was used to the lies by now, there had been so many lies that entered his life, it was almost hard to believe the truth anymore. But this lie, this lie was his favorite. Gunn would soon follow, he would be able to do what Wesley couldn't. He would be able to help Angel, if only a bit, fight in the final battle. He'd fight by Angel's side, try his hardest to fight against the darkness that threatened to swallow him. Wesley found that he wasn't jealous. He wasn't bitter that he couldn't fight by his friend's side. He wasn't bitter that he had died. He was done. He didn't want to watch all of his friends die, this way all he had to do was look up into the face of Fred and let it swallow him whole. She was the only one he had to see. 

It had washed over him, crashed over him in painful waves. There was no white light, no your life flashing in front of your eyes, none of the ridiculous things people say when they supposedly face death in the face and fight it. It was fast and painful. It ripped through him like a tidal wave, buried him under it's strong current and kept him there. He didn't regret things, as most people do. He didn't find time to regret over his loss. He didn't regret losing Gunn. Wesley was sure he'd see Gunn, or maybe that was just another ridiculous thing people say, maybe you didn't see the people you loved, maybe you didn't see your friends after all. If he saw him or not, Wesley didn't regret losing Gunn. It was a quick realization, it ripped through him almost as fast as the waves did, he would do it all over again, if he had the choice. If it came down to it and Wesley was given the chance to do it all over again, he would still ruin his friendship to get the girl. It was selfish yes, but he didn't care. He would still stab Gunn, he would still have Gunn's blood on his hands, if he found out that Gunn had hurt her. 

He'd do it all over again because loving Fred had been his reason for fighting as long as he did. 

He'd do it all over again because there was no other reason for him. In the end, Angel hadn't been meant to be with Buffy, he hadn't been meant to be with Cordelia, hell he wasn't even meant to be with Nina. In the end, Angel had been meant to be with Connor. Even though he sent his son away, he was meant to be with his son. The words Holtz said all those years ago, the words that seem fresh to Wesley now, as if he had just heard them instead of reading them in a letter he had found while packing things up. The letter had looked old, he wasn't even sure how it was in one of their offices, but there it was, begging to be read. The words were still clear as day. 

_Your destiny lies with Angel. I know that now. You will have a better life with him. My only prayer is that I have prepared you well enough for whatever lies ahead. I trust that I have. Be brave._

In the end, Holtz's words had been true. For both Angel and Connor. In the end it wasn't about loving Buffy, it wasn't about loving Cordelia, it wasn't about loving Nina, it was about loving his son. In the end it was about that bigger meaning. Angel once had said if there was no bigger meaning in life then these acts of human kindness was all he could do. But Angel did have a bigger meaning, it was Connor. Just like Wesley had his bigger meaning, it had been Fred for him. Wesley imagines that he do what Angel did. If he could have saved Fred, Wesley imagines that he would swipe all their memories clean, he'd take away everything if it had meant saving Fred. In the end, Wesley realizes he's not all that different from Angel. In the end, it doesn't seem so bad to be like Angel. 

But in the end, all these thoughts, all the memories, all the good byes he didn't say, they just leave his mind. As he's pulled further under the current, none of it matters. All emotions, memories, thoughts, everything that made up a human, it all leaves him as if it was never truly there to begin with. It suddenly doesn't matter anymore. The way his father always berated him, always made him feel less of a man, from the time he was a child to a grown adult, it doesn't matter. His failure at keeping the Wyndham-Pryce name alive, his failure at being a good Watcher, it doesn't matter. His heartache at losing Fred to Gunn, his betrayal and utter foolishness about the false prophecy and Connor, it doesn't matter. Justine slitting his throat, leaving him to die in that park across the street from his apartment, it doesn't matter. Angel trying to kill him in the hospital, being cast out of the family, being left all alone and having nothing to do but turn to his darkness and Lilah, it doesn't matter. The End of Days, finding about Cordelia, Jasmine, the move to Wolfram and Hart, watching Fred and Knox, finally having Fred only to lose her, gaining Illyria, finding out about the memory swipe, Connor returning, destroying the box of memories, the apocalypse, none of it matters. It's all gone. None of it seems to reach to him anymore. 

That's how he knows he's truly dead. 

It's nothing like he imagined it. The darkness it never goes away. It's pitch black all around him. His memories are no longer there, just little fragments here or there. Wasn't that how it had been for Illyria? Fred's memories were gone, but there had been those little fragments. Fragments of memories he knew were lingering around in his mind. Fragments of memories that were recognizable. Little fragments of his time with Angel and Cordelia, his friendship with Gunn. There are bigger fragments, parts of his memory that have more of a pattern, that linger longer than the others. Those are memories of Fred. But then there are fragments of memories he doesn't recognize. Fragments of dislocated memories of a life he's not sure is his own but has an odd familiarity to it. Some fragments line together like pieces of a puzzle, some of them, when put together, make one whole memory. The memory of a scar that will forever tell a story he doesn't want to listen to. 

But fragments are just fragments and in the end, he can't hold onto them. He lets them go with the painful realization that he might never get them back. He was never a religious man, but he had gone to church with his family when he was a child, his father had tried to mold him into the future version of him, he had tried to save his already damned soul by going to that church every week. Wesley had heard all the versions of what heaven and hell were. He even remembered Angel's version of hell. Angel's version had been the most fearful one of them all, he remembered seeing the emotion flicker across Angel's face, but the words do not come to him now. Angel had said words that night, but Wesley can't remember them. He can't remember much of that night now. Had he comforted Angel? Or had he just stayed by his side, letting the silence wrap around both of them? He does remember someone telling him that when you die it's almost as if you are being offered another chance. That couldn't have been Angel. For one Angel wasn't as optimistic, secondly Angel had not been offered a second chance, he had cheated death, he never gained life, he just continued to exist. Whatever had been said about death, the layers of hell (his mind flickers to Lilah giving him a book, the name of it he can no longer remember, the apprehension of Lilah's gift doesn't come to him either), the destruction of human life and the passing of the soul, all of that doesn't seem so real anymore. He was not a religious man, but he had been strong in his belief that some of it existed. But it didn't. When Wesley died, he faded into the dark. 

But colors had stopped existing a long time. They stopped when Fred no longer smiled at him. 

The last thought Wesley remembers is if it's possible to have his soul move on, since it died when Fred did.   


--------------------  


"Wesley." 

The familiar Texan accent pushes past the walls and resounds in his head. For a moment he thinks his cynical thoughts about religion and the process of death and moving on, his utter lack of belief in the after life, was harsh. Because he hears Fred's voice. He moves slightly and finds he's not as uncomfortable as he was before. He almost feels... cushioned. Wesley frowns and secretly strikes out another theory of how when you die your body, soul, all pieces of what you are scatters and there is nothing left, he lets out a breath when he hears Fred's voice again, saying his name. There goes another theory of not needing to breath once you die. Or perhaps he didn't, maybe it was just a reflex. Wesley moves again and through the thick fog that seems to wrap around his mind, he opens an eye, squints painfully at the light, then opens the other eye. 

"There you are." Fred says in that soft tone of hers. Wesley watches the smile that spreads over her face. He smiles weakly at it and brings his hand up to touch her, he wasn't aware he could so, but maybe he had made it to heaven after all and he had created this image. Of Fred. He wasn't sure if he would see her, he had another theory (quite a few of them) that maybe he wouldn't see her because of Illy-- his mind flickers for the rest of the name but it doesn't come to him. In fact he doesn't remember where his train of thought was going. Frowning again, he realizes his hand never made it all the way up to it's destination, in fact his whole body felt incredibly heavy. After a few tries, he is able to bring his hand up and before it can reach it's destination, Fred touches it softly, her eyes glancing at it with a tired look. 

That's when Wesley sees it too. A thick white gauze wrapped around his left wrist. Bandaging. He wasn't aware this was part of the image he created. His blue eyes fixate on the bandage, then his eyes travel up to the bracelet that rest above the bandage. Turning his hand away from Fred, he read the bracelet. 

Pryce, Wesley.


	2. Identity: Chapter 2

**Title:** Identity   
**Author:** InsinuoAnimus   
**Disclaimer:** Know the drill, love the drill, use the drill. None of the characters are mine. Sorry.   
**Summary:** The line between reality and fantasy are often blurred. If not invisible. 

-------------------- 

_{ and he was walking in the garden_   
_and he was walking in the night_   
_and he was singing a sad love song_   
_and he was praying for his life }_   
  
Pryce, Wesley. 

The two words decked out in bold but pale looking blue lettering glare back at him, almost as if mocking him for the predicament he had landed himself in now. They mocked him for not having the ability to remember why he was here, why if he turned his head just slightly to the right he would be greeted with the image of the last thing he saw before his death. He had been told he would see her again, but he didn't expect this image. He didn't expect the bracelet that rubbed against the white gauze that, now that Wesley got a closer look, looked a day or so old. A few red spots appeared through the white gauze, the feeling of heaviness surged through his body again. It had taken everything out of him to touch Fred, to just reach out and try to brush his fingers against her cheek. That same feeling was back, his body felt heavier than it had before, even before his timely death. He always figured he was a glutton for punishment, considering the way he had carried on with his feelings for Fred even though there had been no hope for a happy ending, but he doubted he would want this image. Especially after his death. What was the point in it, really? He didn't feel relieved, he just felt tired. He felt tired and sore. 

"Wesley?" 

Turning his head away from the bracelet that didn't stop it's merciful mocking for one instant, his eyes landed on Fred again. Oh. That was the point. He stared at her for a moment, Illyria had taken her form before his death, how did he know that this wasn't just another lie? The rational part of Wesley pointed out that in fact this _was _a lie. He was dead. Everything that happened now was a lie. The irrational part of Wesley, the part of him that seemed to have taken control ever since Fred's death, pointed out that he bloody well didn't care if it was a lie or not. Like he didn't care that it hadn't really been Fred holding him, crying, saying things in that Fred voice, as he died. This Fred certainly did _look _like the girl he was in love with. Her hair fell in all the right places, in all the places her hair used to fall in before, all the places that used to annoy her. Her eyes were still the same, if not a little tired. The curve of her lips were the same. Her voice was still soft and it was still laced with that Texan accent that seemed so much more familiar to Wesley than all the other voices he could have heard. 

"Wesley, don't you dare pull this silent act again." 

Wesley frowned a bit and opened his mouth to say something but the words died at the tip of his tongue. His throat seemed much more drier than he realized. Swallowing the lump that seemed to lodge itself at the back of his throat, he felt a familiar stinging, it ripped through his whole body for a moment and then stopped at his throat. Pushing past the fatigue, Wesley brought his hand up to the side of neck. Sure enough, he didn't feel undamaged skin. A scar was etched across his throat, running his fingers across the length of the scar, the image of red hair flashed through his mind. A name registered there for a moment. Justine. It was gone as quick as it came. The knife ripping at his skin, the blood that poured, it stayed in his mind but Fred's hands reaching out for his own again made the prior images get pushed back. He let Fred take his hand in hers. She was warm. She had been cold the last time he had _really _held her. She had almost been ice cold. She was warm now and smelled like cinnamon and apples. Her fingers wrapped around his and it brought the panic he had been feeling earlier to a low simmer. Her eyes were on his and he couldn't help but smile slightly. "Fred, I..." 

Fred couldn't help but glance at the scar. The angry scar that was a reminder of Wesley's fall from grace. Fred wasn't sure if she could have done much to help him, but she still blamed herself. She should have been able to see that Wesley needed help. What good was she for if she hadn't been there when he needed her the most? Letting out a soft sigh, Fred turned Wesley's hand in her own and kissed it softly. "It's been a while." 

Wesley closed his eyes as he felt Fred's lips against his skin. The fatigue was coming back, it tried to wash over much like the tidal waves had done earlier, but this time he fought it. He didn't want to go back to sleep. God, he couldn't go back to sleep. He didn't want the dark now. In this moment, there was too much light it was making his eyes hurt, but he was willing to take it. Fred was here. He couldn't leave yet. "You have no idea." Wesley opened an eye and chuckled a bit. "Although I suppose you do, don't you? After all, this," he indicated to his surrounding with his free hand, weakly at that. "is all an image I created. Why I wanted _this_--" 

Fred's heart sank as she heard Wesley's words. He wasn't better. She had hoped, no she had prayed that when she got the call yesterday afternoon that the doctors had good news on Wesley. Maybe he was better. But there was still that same look in his blue eyes. That intense look. It still haunted her at night. Wesley Pryce's blue eyes still made her remember the night she had lost him. The night he had come to her, with that same intense look in his eyes, that same bitter chuckle, his hands moving the same way he moved his free hand now, telling her things she hadn't been ready to hear. What if she had listened to him? What if she hadn't called-- 

"Miss Burkle." 

Wesley looked away from Fred and turned his head to the new person in the room. "Who is that?" 

Fred stood up now, but she didn't let go of his hand. She felt his fingers twitch in her hand, she moved her eyes back over to him and saw the frown already forming there. Her earlier thoughts still resounded in her head, but she pushed them back and idly stroked the top of Wesley's hand. "This is Eleanor Wilkins, your doctor."   
  
  


--------------------   
  
"When you called me, I thought that maybe..." Fred's voice trailed off, her brown eyes moving back to the room she had just left. The cherry wood door was the only thing that stood in her way of going back into that room, grabbing Wesley by the hand and leading them both out of here. She pressed herself against the door, staring through the clear glass, as she watched Wesley stare at the room, almost as if he didn't remember... 

"That he was better? He seems to be a little more rational, but I am still led to believe that he still believes in," Eleanor paused, trying to come up with the right words. She knew that Fred Burkle was very protective of Wesley. It had been proven over the years, it had been proven the first night when Fred showed up with a delirious Wesley Pryce at her side, going on about vampires and such. "that world he created for himself." 

"Does he still talk about him?" 

"Angel?" When Fred nodded, Eleanor followed suite. "But not as much. Over the years, Mister Pryce has stopped talking so much about these characters that he has seemed to make up. Which is why I called you yesterday. I believe he may be ready to be released. You are the only one he still has in contact with, since the..." again Eleanor paused, she was a professional doctor but never in her years had she come across such a patient as Wesley Pryce. He had been an intelligent young man, he had amazing credentials and had the potential to be whatever he wanted to be. Then one day his demeanor had changed, he had started going on about things that only existed in the movies, all his friends had been flabbergasted at such the turn Wesley had taken, Fred, full name Winifred Burkle, had been the only one willing to stand by his side and bring him here. 

"If you call it an 'incident' one more time, I swear..." Fred stopped short of snapping at Eleanor. She had done that too many times over the years. "I know him." Fred pressed her nose against the glass, not lady like at all but Fred was never a classy lady in any terms, she watched Wesley try to pull himself out of the bed, only to fail. "He hasn't changed, not really. It's just some of the things he says, it can't be real, can it?" 

"Fred, I have had the pleasure of knowing you over the years. You're an intelligent woman, you're often biased when it comes to Wesley, but I advise you not to cave in now. We all know the things Wesley led himself to believe in are not real. We talked about this. This has something to deal with his problems with his real family. He never really had a closeness to his family, so he made up this world to make up for that." 

"A family of unexpected heroes." Fred said with an almost wistful tone to her voice. "It always sounded like a movie. I've heard it so many times over the years, I can't help but wonder sometimes. It's not like he made them all up. Rupert and I exist, after all. He believes in it so passionately, maybe he's not..." 

"You know I don't use that word." 

"At least where they can hear you." Fred grinned. She heard Eleanor comment back, probably with a comment with her usual sarcasm when they got talking, over the years they had become close, almost friends -- but Fred's attention was back on Wesley. It wasn't real. Vampires, Demons, Vampire Slayers, Watcher Councils, none of that was real. It was just something he had made up. But sometimes she really did wonder.   
  
  


--------------------   
  
"I'm not crazy." Wesley said, almost in a superior tone he hadn't used in a while. This was his image, this was his dream he created, and he wasn't about to let some, he guessed she was British, stiff British woman tell him he was crazy. He was not crazy, and if she thought he was, he had a few words for her. He paused in his protest, when he realized that maybe he was a little crazy. Not most people kept around an ancient old demon just because they inhabited his old girlfriend's body. Wesley's eyes searched for Fred's, he let out a breath when he found her again. "I'm not crazy, Fred. Tell her! Tell her I'm telling the truth. This is a big mistake." 

"Wesley." Fred started, moving further into the room. "No one said you were crazy, we just..." 

Oh. He wasn't in heaven at all. He was in hell. A very stiff and painfully snootish hell, at that. 

"Mister Pryce, over the years you have told us many tales. We've talked about this. At one point, you even managed to think you died." Eleanor turned to Fred. "He even told us of a story where you died. He was hysterical at that point. He kept bringing up a person named Illyria. He spoke of your death as if you were not..." 

Fred cleared her throat, dismissing the rest of Eleanor's speech. "Is he free to go or not?" 

"Where am I?" Wesley asked, watching both women turn back to him. 

After a moment's silence, Eleanor spoke. "Wesley, you are in The Retreat Mental Hospital." 

As if his hell wasn't bad enough, it decided to get even more ironic. Wesley _knew _about The Retreat. He had been assigned to do some research on it years ago when he had still been in The Watcher's Academy. A few Slayers had been sent to The Retreat after they started acting irregular. The Retreat was a mental institution. William Tuke had built The Retreat after he had found out about what happened to many young girls that had been sent to York Asylum. If Wesley remembered the story correctly, friends were not allowed to visit these girls, most of them had died within a few weeks. Friends then investigated the conditions there and found out that the patients had been treated worse than animals. In fact, because the patients couldn't think clearly, they were even led to think that they were animals. The Retreat had, of course, been much more friendly and a better place for people to seek help and recover. If all of this was true, that meant that he was... "We're in England?" 

His quizzical answer had been met with a firm nod from Eleanor and a soft, sympathetic look from Fred.   



	3. Identity: Chapter 3

**Title:** Identity   
**Author:** InsinuoAnimus   
**Disclaimer:** Know the drill, love the drill, use the drill. None of the characters are mine. Sorry.   
**Summary:** The line between reality and fantasy are often blurred. If not invisible. 

-------------------- 

_{ tell me what it's like to be with you_   
_remind me of the things we used to do_   
_and tell me that this time will never end_   
_tell me what it's like, tell me again }_   
  
Wesley couldn't even remember the last time he was in England and now here he was. In England. In a mental institution in England nonetheless. Wesley was sure he was in hell now. He wasn't that bad of a person, was he? A little rough around the edges, yes. He made decisions that weren't always the right ones. He could often be selfish when it came to certain people, things. He often found himself indulging in the dark side of things. But that didn't qualify him as a bad person. But of course, it certainly didn't qualify him as one of _them._

At least he had the decency to realize this was the first time he actually thought of his friends. Former friends. Most likely deceased friends. The moment he opened his eyes, all he saw was Fred. Her tired eyes, her quick smile, her scent-- and of course, Eleanor Wilkins. His doctor. It was absolute rubbish, of course. He didn't believe it for one moment. He certainly wasn't the most sane person around, but that didn't qualify him to be insane. At least insane enough to be landed in one of England's most well known mental institutions. But yes, now he thought of them. Of Angel. What was his last thoughts of the vampire? He could hardly remember. He found himself having an odd urge to see him again. Just a quick glance. He found that he was hoping that maybe Angel did make it out alive. Him and Angel weren't what they used to be, but Wesley found that he didn't wish death upon him. This year he had been living a lie, the lie of being Angel's closest friend again. When he broke the box that contained forgotten memories, Wesley had felt it all rushing back. But surprisingly enough, he wasn't angry. He knew he had been foolish to assume that Angel would have risked Fred, the look in Angel's eyes, the desperation had ripped through him like another knife at his throat. Yes, he still cared about Angel. He probably cared about Angel more than the others. Certainly more than Gunn, clearly more than Spike, sadly more than Lorne. Wesley still remembers the last look he gave Angel, their eyes had connected for a second. The silent good bye. Yes, of course Wesley had told Illyria that he had no intentions of dying, but god, he had known. 

"Wes?" 

Wesley turns his thoughts off for a second and turns his head to the pretty female that the voice belongs to. She had pulled her hair into a nervous pony-tail when they had took the first steps out of the hospital, there was strands of her hair that had fallen out of the pony-tail. He had noticed how her hands had shook when she rushed to the passenger side of the door and opened it for him. He had stared at her blankly for a few seconds, but moving his eyes away from and getting in the car when he noticed he was making her uncomfortable. He stared at her like that again, blinking and turning his gaze to the simple radio in the simple car of hers, noticing for the first time it was on. Country music. He suppose he should have found that amusing. Even in England, she was listening to country music. She was still listening to The Dixie Chicks. He wondered if she still had their posters. 

"Just making sure you're still here with me." Fred said, when Wesley didn't say anything to her. She was relieved that he had even turned his head toward her. For a moment her breath caught in her throat when his blue eyes were on hers. They were an icy blue. That was another thing about Wesley that amazed her. His eyes could turn different shades of blue. When his emotions whirled around him, when he felt a certain way, his eyes showed that too. She had always found it fascinating, she had found herself searching through whatever fog that whirled around them at the time, for his eyes. Many years later he had the same ability. 

"Where else would I be?" 

Fred gripped the steering wheel and made a quick turn, forcing herself to let out a breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Wesley rest his head against the car window, his eyes closed a few seconds after that. Fred wasn't even sure what she was doing. Why did she find the need to go to The Retreat when she got that call? She could have just told Eleanor Wilkins that Wesley Pryce was her past, that it had been close to six years since she had made the call, handed him over to the hospital, and that she didn't have any intention of bringing her past back. But instead Fred had changed quickly, looked in the mirror and told herself that she would be a fool not to see him again. Six years was too long, and after all, she was the only one he could count on. Hadn't that been what he told her? She was the only one that mattered. How could she stay away from him? 

Even with closed eyes, Wesley could feel her. He could see the way her eyebrows were knitted together, he could see the frown of concentration etched across her face. He could see how she was biting her lip, the way she gripped, released, and gripped the steering wheel again. "Don't frown, it causes wrinkles." 

Fred blinked in surprise and let out a genuine laugh. "You always tell me that." 

"And surprise, surprise, you still don't listen to me." 

"I listen to you!" Fred exclaimed, her voice in mock hurt. "Why Mr. Pryce, I can't believe the nerve you have. If anyone doesn't listen to anyone, it's you that don't listen to me. You never have and--" 

"Never will." Wesley finished for her. Wesley frowned suddenly, but didn't open his eyes. He didn't know what part of the conversation irked him, but he felt an odd familiarity wash over him. As if, he did indeed have this conversation before. Wesley couldn't remember ever telling Fred not to frown because it would cause her to have wrinkles, in fact he couldn't remember why he had even said that. To break the silence that was in the car? Perhaps. But it didn't explain why this conversation felt so familiar. Why he had finished her sentence, as if he had done it before or if he had heard her say it before. But that wasn't possible. He would have remembered. 

This time the silence didn't make Fred so uncomfortable. She drove in silence, the only thing she could hear now was The Dixie Chicks and the sound of Wesley's breaths. This reminded her so much of the people they were six years ago. Hadn't they been in this same car, her listening to country music while he rested? She had been driving him to the very same place she was now, she had just bought the house and was excited, Wesley was the first person that would see the house. Rupert, second. At the time Fred hadn't known Rupert all that much, but he seemed like a nice enough fellow, plus he was best friends with Wesley, that was all Fred needed to know. That and they both had British accents and she found she was quite fond of them. A week later Wesley would change, leaving only Rupert for Fred to depend on while Wesley was in The Retreat Mental Hospital.   
  


_"And welcome to my humble abode." Fred grinned, she turned around to see what Wesley thought of it. If he loved or hated it, his face didn't show anything. Fred watched Wesley look around the house, making a 'hmm' sound every few seconds. Oh how she hated when he did this. She was sure he did this to torture her. "So?"_

_ "It's all right, I suppose." Wesley finally let a grin fall over his feature when Fred frowned at him in that disapproving way she always did. "Don't frown, it causes wrinkles." Wesley moved away from Fred and walked into the kitchen, smiling softly at the way she had it set up. It almost felt like he was back in her home in Texas, instead of her very first house in England. He tilted his head, looking at a picture of them she had sitting next to her favorite type of flowers, daises. She had said they weren't classy like roses, but she was no rose._

_ "You always tell me that." Fred pointed out playfully._

_ "And surprise, surprise, you still don't listen to me."_

_ "I listen to you!" Fred exclaimed, grinning as Wesley arched up an eyebrow. "Why Mr. Pryce, I can't believe the nerve you have. If anyone doesn't listen to anyone, it's you that don't listen to me. You never have and--"_

_ "Never will." Wesley grinned back and leaned back, resting against the kitchen counter._

_ "So?" Fred walked into the kitchen and leaned against the opposite counter, waiting._

_ "I like it."_   
  


Casting another glance over at Wesley, she smiled softly when her suspicions were confirmed by his calm breaths. The frown was off his face, his left hand had stopped twitching every few minutes, confirming that he was indeed asleep. Fred knew all about Wesley's sleeping patterns, how many nights had she stayed up watching him sleep? The few weeks before his sudden change, she saw a difference in how he slept. His body had begun to start twitching in his sleep and he had begun muttering names she had never heard before. 

Except one. 

Charles Gunn. 

Tearing her gaze away from Wesley, she sighed softly when she saw her house come into view. It had been a two hour ride from the hospital back to her house and two hours had never seemed so long before in her life.   
  
  


--------------------   
  
"And welcome to my humble abode." 

Wesley paused in his walking, he turned to look at Fred strangely. He was sure he had heard those words before, he just couldn't remember. Pushing that thought aside, he moved deeper into the house, staring at the way she had set it up. He couldn't help the smile that started to pull at the corners of his lips when he saw all the books she had all around the house. He moved to the bookcase and trailed his fingers across the spines of various books. He heard her moving behind him, he didn't turn to her yet, he just pulled out a book and opened it up, taking in the smell of the book. "You still love books." Wesley said, putting the book away. 

"Well of course. I've always been a book worm, you know that." 

"Do I?" Wesley turned to Fred, watching how uncertainty flashed in her eyes. He took a step back and away from her, but stopped when he felt her hand on his arm, he turned his eyes back at her, this time there was no uncertainty, there was just a question look in her brown eyes. He found that the same brown eyes he used to love looking at were now the eyes he couldn't look at. He turned away again but didn't move or brush her hand off of him. Everything was still swimming around in his head. This was all in his imagination, an image he created, this wasn't real, he was gone, he was dead. But the touch of Fred's hand on his arm was incredibly warm, and the aching in his heart was far too real. He wanted to believe this was his hell, but again the touch on his arm made him think otherwise. How could it be hell if Fred was here? Things were always better when she was around... 

"Wesley?" Fred moved to the front of Wesley, removing her hand from his arm. She saw an odd look in Wesley's eyes before he closed them, shutting her out once again. Maybe this is what she deserved for turning him over to the hospital all those years ago. Rupert had told her it was the only option, but maybe there had been another one. What if she had believed him? Sure, it sounded absurd to believe in vampires and demons, but maybe she could have saved him. He had trusted her, asked her if he could tell her something, confide in her, and she had told him he could and then turned him over to strangers, assuming that they could save him. 

"You think I'm crazy." Wesley didn't open his eyes, or made it seem like a question. It was a fact. 

"No, Wes--" 

"You do." Wesley opened his eyes this time, his blue eyes blazing a look that Fred wasn't used to. She almost took a step back, but instead she stood her ground. "I'm not crazy. I don't care what those doctors say, I don't care what you think you remember about me, about," Wesley gestured around before speaking again, "this world, I'm not crazy." Wesley paused and let out a bitter chuckle. "Actually, I suppose I am." 

"I never thought..." 

"I've been crazy since the day I lost you." 

Fred let out a breath, this time she did touch him. She brought up her hand and touched his cheek, feeling the stubble tickling at her smooth skin. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the days Wesley would forget to shave, she remembered how he would come up behind her and nuzzle her neck, grinning when she giggled at the way his stubble tickled the smooth skin of her neck. Those moments had been endearing, they made her heart flutter, now they made her heart beat violently against her chest. Because here he was again, after six years he was standing in front of her. Finding her bravery again, she opened her eyes and felt her heart start to beating even more violently when Wesley leaned into her touch, oh dear god, she wasn't ready for this. "W-Wesley..." she let out a breath, mentally chastising herself for how weak her voice sounded. She wasn't weak, hadn't Wesley once told her that? He had believed she was one of the strongest people he knew. "I, I don't think you're crazy. It was so many years ago, god... you scared us, you know that? You scared us so much." 

"You haven't seen anything, yet." Wesley said, moving away from Fred and walking off.   
  
  


--------------------   
  
"Nifty place, you have here." 

Wesley didn't turn to the voice, he just continued to stare at the sky, he gripped the balcony railing, gripping until his knuckles were almost white, he finally let the railing go when he a quick pain rip throughout his left arm. He looked down at it, remembering the white gauze. The injury must have been fresh, it still hurt whenever he moved his hand too fast or put too much pressure on that particular hand, particular wrist. Wesley heard the foot steps. They moved from behind him to the side of him, they finally stopped after a few minutes, Wesley turned his head to the side, swallowing hard when he saw him. "I suppose it's okay." 

"Okay? Man, I would have given up my soul for a place like this." 

"You wouldn't have had time to enjoy it." 

"Oh, yeah. What with the maiming and the killing." 

"Always a favorite pastime." Wesley let out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. "Angel." 

"Who did you think it would be? Gunn? Not likely. Spike? Please. Cordy?" Angel paused, looking up at the sky for a moment. One moment turned into a few moments, Angel let a breath he really didn't need, he spoke again, not turning to face Wesley, even though the British was staring at him. "Not happening. Lorne? Nah. Looks like I'm the man for the job." He flickered his eyes over to Wesley and half grinned at him. "Well vampire." 

"They think I'm crazy." 

"Well aren't you?" Angel grinned even wider when Wesley narrowed his eyes at him. "We're all a little crazy, Wes. It just seems you're crazier than most. Or that's what they say, at least. So," Angel leaned further over the railing, marveling at the sight in front of him. He didn't remember England being this beautiful. "I hear I'm a figment of your imagination. You know, Wes, you could have at least given me a break here or there. Couldn't I have gotten the girl in the end? By the way, Nina? Shocking, really. Who would have thought of that one?" Angel paused and let out a low chuckle. "Well I guess you did. But man, you really like the angst, don't you?" 

"You weren't a figment of my imagination. Please tell me that you weren't." 

"Don't know." Angel shrugged. "I felt real enough." 

"Did you..." Wesley swallowed the lump at the back of his throat again, trying to find the words. 

"Die?" Angel smiled when Wesley nodded. "If I did, I don't remember. Not too sure on that one. I'm thinking if I did live through it, I'll give Nina a call. Tell her it's safe to come back. Then maybe I'll go see Connor. I know I sent him away and told him to go back to his family, but I'd just like to see him again. He's a good kid." 

"He is. He loves you." 

"Shocking, huh?" Angel had a smile on his face, one that was slightly contagious, because Wesley smiled slightly. It was a proud smile on Angel's face. The same smile Angel had when he used to hold Connor in his arms, when Connor was just a baby, before everything else that happened. "He tried to save me." 

"I thought he didn't like the fight anymore." 

"He did it for me." Angel was still smiling. "Guess I got the happy ending after all. I had my son." The mood in the air moved from an air of pride into seriousness. Angel turned to get a better look at Wesley and frowned. "When Illyria told me you were dead, it was just... I never really got to say some stuff to you..." 

"Me neither. I suppose some things are better left unsaid, though." 

"Not always." Angel said, turning his eyes back to the sky, to anything but Wesley. "Not the stuff we had to say. I lose everyone I really care about. When we looked at each other, before you left... well I guess that was our good bye. I don't think I was ready for it. Deep down, I knew. How could I not? I knew I'd lose pretty much all of you. But I wasn't really ready to lose you. Me, you, and Cordy. That's how it started, then you two..." 

"I knew." 

"I know." 

Wesley let out a breath and finally turned away from Angel, he leaned over the railing, looking at the same sky, mimicking Angel's own actions. "Angel." Neither of them turned to each other. "Is this it?" 

"It?" 

"Where we say good bye?" 

Angel was quiet for a long time, he looked over his shoulder at Wesley. "Not yet." 

When Wesley finally turned to Angel, he no longer found the vampire with a soul next to him. He turned around and looked around but the only person out on the balcony of Fred's house was just him. Bringing up his hands, he scrubbed at his face. God, he was going insane. He moved away from the railing and went to walk off, but he paused when he saw something silver flash into the corner of his eye for a moment. Moving back to the railing, he saw it. Angel's ring. He put the ring in his pocket and walked in the direction of the house.   


--------------------   


"Can't sleep?" 

Fred blinked and looked up, she smiled when she saw Wesley standing at the entrance of the kitchen. She shrugged and pulled out a chair for him, for a moment he just stared at the chair and she felt her heart stop, she wondered if he remembered this tradition. She looked down at her cereal, taking another bite. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wesley walk into the kitchen and over to the chair. Only once he sat down, next to her, did her heart start to beat regularly. "I was just thinking, I do too much of that. Want some?" 

Before Wesley could answer, Fred was already up, grabbing the milk, a spoon and a bowl. He didn't say anything, not yet, he just watched her walk back over to the table and pour him a bowl of cereal. A few seconds later, he was greeted with a bowl full of cheerios, he took a bite and let the silence wrap around them. It had to be at least two in the morning, taking another bite, he turned to Fred. "I do too much of it too. Thinking." 

"We always thought too much. It always got in the way of things. We were always calculating things. Numbers, fractions, decimals, that's all I can think about sometimes. Theories, what can go into what, why this exists and why that doesn't, that is always running around in my mind. It keeps me up at nights." 

"Fred?" 

Fred paused, lowering her spoon for a second. "Yeah?" 

"Would you have loved me?" Echoes of Fred's voice asking him the same thing resound in his head. The same question bounces back and forth in his mind, almost painfully, only stopping when Fred speaks again. 

"I loved you the moment I met you, no, I think I loved you before I met you, somehow." 

Wesley closed his eyes, remembering the moment he had heard those words. The words he said to Fred. 

Fred sighed, she dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clank. She turned her chair, so she was facing Wesley completely. She reached out and touched him again, just like before he leaned into the touch. With her other hand, she pulled Wesley's chair to face hers. "Look at me." She smiled when she saw his blue eyes. "I always loved your eyes. I used to look through a crowd just to find them. Eleanor, she told me you might not remember your past, that you blocked it out in favor of the other world, she said you may never remember, but no matter what, I'll be here. Staying away from you is no longer an option. And I don't think you're crazy." 

"Do me a favor." Wesley said, leaning forward in his chair, so his face was only a few inches from Fred's. 

"Anything." 

"Remind me."   



	4. Identity: Chapter 4

**Title:** Identity   
**Author:** InsinuoAnimus   
**Disclaimer:** Know the drill, love the drill, use the drill. None of the characters are mine. Sorry.   
**Summary:** The line between reality and fantasy are often blurred. If not invisible. 

-------------------- 

_{ the greatest love affairs started with hello_   
_the greatest love songs started with a note_   
_the mona lisa started with a stroke_   
_maybe me and you could be one of those }_   
  
The hours since he woke up in The Retreat have swirled into days. It's been days since he woke up and realized that the only wound he felt was the one across his throat, an old scar that still burned, and the forming scar on his left wrist where he apparently tried to end his life. Wesley doesn't remember the scar on his wrist, he can't help but remember the scar on his throat. Scars were souvenirs that never went away, to Fred scars were marks of a story, each scar told a story. Wesley wasn't sure if _this _Fred believed that. He had started to make categories. He remembered _this _Fred as the woman that walked around her quaint looking home in England trying everything to help him remember the man he was supposed to be. He remembered _that _Fred as the woman he had fallen desperately in love with only to lose her when he finally had her. _This _Fred and _that _Fred both looked the same, they both had the texan accent, they both were a sign of weakness for him. _This _Fred touched his cheek in a way that warmed his heart, _this _Fred looked at him with a curious look, as if daring herself to believe in the words he spoke to her once, he doesn't remember these words, he doesn't remember anything about this life, he only knows that she's a part of it. _That _Fred is his life. She haunts him whenever he closes his eyes, the moment he closes his eyes, she comes flooding back to him. She is his heart and when he opens his eyes _this _Fred is at his side, touching him in that soft, gentle way she does, holding him as he fights his way back to the surface. 

On his second day in _this _Fred's house, her life, her world, he sits in the room she set up for him and takes off the white gauze that wraps around the offending wound, hiding it from his eyes. Piece by piece, he removes the gauze and stares at his wrist. He touches it and has the decency to wince at the pain that shoots through his body. He stares at the offending slash, marveling at how deep it goes and how he knows there will be a scar once the wound heals. He closes his eyes and almost wills the memory to come back to him. Why had he done it? But nothing comes, when he opens his eyes again, _that _Fred is in front of his eyes. She slides down on the ground so they're sitting together, and together they stare at the wound. When he looks at her again, it's Illyria, cocking her head to the side, asking him why these scars, these marks, these memories mean so much to him. 

On his fourth day, he shuts and locks the door to his room. He goes to his dresser and pulls out Angel's ring. He turns it in his hand and touches the symbols of the ring. He puts it down on the top of the dresser, kneels in front of his dresser and watches the ring for close to thirty minutes. Angel doesn't come to him. The ring doesn't glow like it did the first night he encountered it. When he touches it again, he keeps it in his hands for a long time, he doesn't remember when he finally puts it away. It's the only thing that's real. The only real reminder of what he used to be. What his world used to be. He doesn't remember how he gets in his bed, he doesn't remember unlocking his door, he doesn't remember Fred coming into the room. But he wakes up to a warm body, he squints, letting his eyes adjusting to the light and then he moved his head to the side and watches Fred. Like an abandoned child, he moves closer to Fred, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the ring on the dresser. 

On his sixth day, Rupert Giles walks back in his life. Wesley listens to the words that come out of Rupert's mouth, he watches how his lips move as the words fly out. Fred sits next to him and squeezes his hand here or there, to give him comfort. Rupert smiles at him in an oddly comforting way. Wesley doesn't remember Rupert _ever _smiling at him like that before. Later that night Fred tells him that Rupert is his best friend. 

On the night of his sixth day, Wesley dreams of _that _Rupert Giles who thought he was a bumbling fool. He dreams of _that _Rupert Giles that hadn't been willing to help them save Fred, _that _Rupert Giles that had hung up on them. _This _Fred has a bowl of cheerios waiting for him by the time he gets to the kitchen. He doesn't smile at her this time, they don't talk, they just sit together in silence while Wesley wonders once again if this is hell. 

The days just keep swirling around him. None of it makes sense. He shouldn't be here.   
  
  


--------------------   
  
"How did we meet?" 

Fred looked up, for the first time noticing that Wesley was in the library with her. Putting the book down, she motions for him to come closer to her. She doesn't really know why she does it, Wesley comes to her anyway. He gives her an odd look for a moment before settling down in the chair next to her. Fred takes off her glasses, setting them on top of the book she was reading and stretches. "Good morning to you too." 

"Good morning, Fred." Wesley greeted absently, he leaned over and grabbed the book Fred was reading. It's some silly romance novel. He eyes the cover for a moment before turning back to Fred. "How did we meet?" 

Fred frowned for a moment, letting her disappointment show, but only for a moment. He still didn't remember. He didn't stare at her like she was a stranger, he looked at her in a way that sometimes scared her, sometimes made those butterflies start to flutter away in her stomach. Pushing those thoughts away and smiling at him, she took a sip of her water before speaking. "I had been living in Los Angeles for a while. You and Rupert were there for some work, research for some of the classes you were doing." Fred paused, waiting to see any recognition come back, when all she got was a frown of confusion, she continued on. "You and Rupert used to teach at the Academy, the same Academy you graduated from. You were a magnificent sight, you know. I used to come by the Academy and sneak into one of your classes just to see you. I felt like a school girl." 

"You left Los Angeles?" Wesley asked, tearing Fred away from her nostalgia. 

"Oh, yes. Not right away, of course. We had met at a book store. I had been trying to reach for this book, it was too high for me and as I reached up to grab it, I sent it tipping right off the book case and on your head. You looked up at me and handed the book to me. I was so embarrassed, but you told me that pretty young women dropped books on your head all the time. I invited you out to lunch to make up for the concussion I no doubt gave you." Fred paused, letting herself remember that day. She had fallen in love with him then. When those blue eyes had looked up at her, she had been instantly attracted. The same attraction she felt six years later. 

"How did you get to England?" 

"I spent the next few weeks with you, getting to know you. It seemed we had so much in common. I showed you around my college, you were fascinated with everything. We were always talking about books, calculations, theories. When it was time for you to leave, you told me if I ever came to England, I should look you up. A year passed until we met again. I was in need for something new and for some silly reason, I found myself in England. I guess, a part of me, couldn't forget about you. It was something out of a bad movie. I traveled half across the world just to see you. God, you must have thought I was a lunatic. A stalker." 

"You must have really loved me." Wesley said after a few moments. 

"Yeah, I did."   
  
  


--------------------   
  
_ You are so concerned with names, dates, times._

_ Reality's being changed._

_ Define change. The world is as it is._

_ Not necessarily._

_ You are a summation of recollections. Each change is simply a point of experience._

_ We are more than just memories._   
  
  


--------------------   
  
When Wesley was a child, he used to sit on the top of the stairs, always making sure he was unseen, he would stay at the top of those stairs and watch his mother. He watched her pick up broken pieces of some lamp, some vase, some plate she dropped. Her hands would shake for no reason except the life she lived. Wesley would lean his forehead against the railing and watch his mother. She was weak. It was funny how Wesley had never noticed that before. His mother was very weak, but of course anyone who showed emotion in the Wyndham-Pryce household were weak. Wesley learned this lesson very soon in his life. But the nights when his father wasn't around, Wesley would stay up past his bed time and he would watch his mother. 

Now, Wesley watched Fred. He had watched her since the beginning, all those years ago when he first met her. Really met her. Fred was always an interesting subject. Wesley had watched the relationship her and Gunn had fall apart in front of her. Wesley knew he had been the reason for that, but at the time that hadn't mattered. Fred had always been destined for bigger things. She had been destined for things she couldn't get in Texas. She had been destined for bigger things she couldn't get from Charles Gunn. She had gotten them from him. Wesley didn't feel the satisfaction, the pride in that. He never did. He knew that should be enough, but alas it wasn't. 

Sighing, Wesley moved his eyes to where Fred was now. He looked at her from the top of his book. He watched her as she continued to read her book, it wasn't the same romance novel she had been reading from before, no this was some book on mythology. Wesley wasn't sure how she went from romance to mythology, but he didn't make himself known, he didn't make a sound as she bit down on her lip, frowning at some passage in the book. There were some many versions of this Fred that reminded him of the Fred he remembered. _This _Fred was swirling around him, sometimes faster than his eyes could adjust to, sometimes when he looked at her, she was _that _Fred, and he found it made his heart ache. He wanted to touch her, to tell her how much he missed her. How he's been dying every day since he lost her. He wants to tell her how he's been lost without her. He wants to tell her how he stabbed Gunn, how he killed Knox, he wants to tell her all of his sins and wait for her reaction. 

But _this _Fred, despite how she looks, sounds, or even smells, is not _that _Fred. 

"Wesley?" 

Wesley lowers his eyes down to his own book, ignoring the voice of _this _Fred. She speaks to him softly, gently, voice full with understanding, and still she is not his. He is not hers. So he just turns the page of his book, pretending to be engrossed in what he's reading. She looks at him for a few more moments then gives up.   


_Is this it?_

_ It?_

_ Where we say goodbye?_

_ Not yet._   
  
  


_--------------------_   
  
_ You betrayed Angel. You stole his son. He tried to kill you._

_ Yes._

_ Are these the memories you needed back? Does this now make you Wesley?_

_ At least I know what happened._

_ Do you? There are two sets of memories—those that happened and those that are fabricated. It's hard to tell which is which._

_ Try to push reality out of your mind. Focus on the other memories. They were created for a reason._

_ To hide from the truth?_

_ To endure it._   
  
  


_--------------------_   
  
"Still fighting it?" 

Wesley looked up from his book and almost smiled with relief when he saw him. But he stopped himself before he did such a thing. He shouldn't be relieved or happy to see him. None of this was real. Wesley was still convinced this was just a part of the moving on. Layers. Like Dante's Inferno. There had been layers, levels of hell. This is what this was. It was a test. Testing his memories, his emotions, his strength, or lack thereof. But nonetheless, Wesley closes his book, not bothering to save the part he was reading. He studies him for a moment, taking in his sight. He's wearing his usual black clothing. Wesley's eyes bounce over to Angel's hand and noticing how bare it looks without the ring. Wesley digs in his pocket and takes out the ring, offering it to Angel. 

Angel looks at the ring for a moment and shakes his head. "I don't need it anymore." 

"I tried to kill myself." 

"Already?" Angel grinned, taking a seat next to Wesley. "That's a record." 

"No." Wesley extend his arm, taking off the white gauze. He lets out a breath as Angel touches his wrist, his fingers don't touch the wound, just brushes the outside of it. Angel stares at his wrist for a few more moments, then brown eyes are on Wesley's blue ones. There is a little sadness there. "I don't know why I did it." 

"Maybe it was too much for you." 

"What was?" 

"Living in two worlds." Angel stretches out his legs, not even caring about the water on the ground, left over from a rainstorm the previous night, were going to soak into his pants and ruin them. "There is so much the mind can handle before it just can't take it anymore. You just want it to end. The pain. The nightmares. When I returned from hell, I was like that. I couldn't stand it. I was always weak, but god, it was too hard. I would wake up screaming most nights, Buffy would be there, trying to soothe me, but sometimes it didn't work. I remember Christmas day, I had nearly ended it right there. I just wanted to be strong. Buffy had told me that being strong was fighting, that it was hard and it was every day, but we could do it together." Angel paused and snorted. "Didn't work out like that. I'm not too sure if fighting is always the right thing to do. I fought. I lost." 

"Maybe I should have fought harder." 

"You were done, Wesley. You had lived and fought as long as you could. When Fred died, it was like you died with her. When we're done, we're just done. Do I wish you had fought harder? Of course, I do. But you fought as hard as you could. Toward the end you got restless, the reason you had fought for so long was gone." 

"Fred." 

Angel nodded, then turned to look at Wesley again. "It's time to stop fighting again." 

"You were never real." This time it wasn't a question. Wesley's voice was resigned, he looked at Angel, maybe hoping Angel would tell him otherwise, but the vampire with a soul just looked at him sadly. The part of Wesley that had lived in this fabricated world with Angel, screamed out that _this _was the lie. This was just another lie. Angel was real. Angel was still fighting. Angel was going to save the world or die trying. How could it all be fake? Angel's story, his life, his journey, had begun before Wesley had even met him. 

"No. I was real." 

Wesley frowned. That part of him that had been resigned before started to come back to life. 

"Don't get your hopes up. You still can't go back. You still can't leave this place. Listen, I was real. To you, I was. I'm not your imaginary friend, I'm your real friend. But your time in that world is over. Your identity in that world died. You can never go back. In your heart, I was real. In your mind, at the time, I was real." 

"Oh god. I _am _crazy." 

"You had two identities. For the longest time, you were asleep in this world. While you were proverbially sleeping in this world, your other identity in the other world, our world, lived on. You lived as Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, former Watcher. But when you died, so did your identity. It's why you woke up here." 

"To sum it up, I'm crazy." 

"Pretty much, yeah." There was rustling of clothes and shoes, Wesley didn't pay attention. He shut his eyes tightly. He was not crazy. Good god, he couldn't be crazy. He was a lot of things, but he really didn't want to add an absolute lunatic to that list. "Stop fighting it. You have love here, Wesley. In Fred. She's still Fred." 

Wesley didn't say anything, there was a long, thick silence until Angel spoke again. 

"Good bye." 

When Wesley opened his eyes, Angel was gone.   
  
  


_--------------------_   
  
"Fred." 

With a sound of surprise, Fred nearly dropped her cup of tea. Willing her heart to go back to normal, she placed her cup of tea down on the table and turned to look at Wesley. "Wesley, you scared me." 

"Ah, sorry." Wesley said, walking further into the room. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could Fred was running up to him with a concerned look on her face and in her eyes. Wesley looked down at himself and realized he was shaking. Turning his head to the window, he noticed that it was raining. He had been out on the roof, long after Angel, or at least the Angel in his mind had disappeared. He had been trying to convince himself that he wasn't crazy. That this was all in his mind. Wesley laughed out loud, turning back to look at Fred, who looked a little startled at his laugh. This whole time he had been saying all of this was in his mind, and it seemed that was the only thing he was right about. Everything he had ever known was in his mind. 

"You're shaking." Fred said, disregarding the laughter that had spilled out of Wesley's mouth a few moments ago. "Were you out there in the rain? Are you--" Fred paused, mentally chastising herself again. She looked up at Wesley and saw the smirk on his face. "I didn't mean it like that." Sighing, she pulled his now soaked jacket off of his body and let it drop the floor. "What were you doing out there? God, say something will you?" 

"I thought I was dreaming." Wesley felt another shiver rip through his body as he felt the air whip across his chilled body. Fred went to rub his arms again, but he grabbed her wrists. He watched the surprise in her eyes. "When I first woke up, I thought I was dreaming. But I wasn't. You see, I was finally waking up." 

"Wesley..." 

"He's gone. Everything. It's all gone." 

Fred let out a breath when Wesley finally let go of her wrists. She felt her heart beat refuse to go back to normal, instead her heart started to beat violently against her chest, much like it did the first night Wesley was here, just like it did the night Wesley showed up six years ago telling her about things that couldn't exist. He had the same look in his eyes, the same intense, wild look dancing in his blue eyes. His already short hair was sticking to his face, in result of the rain, his clothes did the same thing, sticking to his body. She brought up her hand to touch him, disregarding the way he had grabbed her wrists before. She laid her hand upon his cheek, feeling the way it chilled her to the bone, just by touch. "You can tell me about it, I won't leave you this time..." 

"You're the only one left. You were the only one that mattered." 

Wesley moved a few steps forward, closing off all space between him and Fred. He leaned in and crushed his lips against Fred, he felt her stiffen in surprise and then he felt her body melt against him and her return the kiss. Wesley pulled away from the kiss, he looked at Fred a moment before diving in for another kiss.   



	5. Identity: Chapter 5

**Title:** Identity   
**Author:** InsinuoAnimus   
**Disclaimer:** Know the drill, love the drill, use the drill. None of the characters are mine. Sorry.   
**Summary:** The line between reality and fantasy are often blurred. If not invisible. 

-------------------- 

_{ i'll wash my bloody hands_   
_and we'll start a new life }_   
  
Shifting in the bed, Fred propped all of her weight, which wasn't all that much to begin with, on her left elbow as her eyes roamed over the sleeping body in her bed. It still didn't seem plausible that he was here with her now. When she had gotten the phone over two weeks ago, this was all she had wanted. She had just wanted him back -- frankly, she didn't care if he was insane, she just wanted him back with her. She just wanted the goofy British man that had made her feel like she was the most amazing woman in the world. But now that he was here, sleeping next to her in the bed he had moved to every part of her room until she was satisfied, it just seemed wrong. His bright blue eyes weren't the eyes that she remembered. They were always dark and hallow, the look of death reflected in them. This wasn't the man she had fallen in love with. This man was someone else entirely. Even his accent was different. The logical part of her had the perfect explaination for that. The stab wound that had nearly taken his life, had left more lasting effects than an angry scar. It had made Wesley's voice rougher, the doctors had said it could be a permenant effect on his voice, which it had proved to be. But still the voice seemed so different to her. How could a person she knew so well change so much? No logical part of her could -- would understand it. When he touched her, he looked at her as if it was paining him to do so. 

It pulled at her heart, in the most painful way, when she first saw the look in his eyes. She had tried to pull away from him, but he had managed to surprise her again when he reached for her, the pained look in his eyes disappearing and a frantic look replacing it. The first night he stayed in her bed, she had feigned sleep. She had felt his eyes on her all night and at first it had made her heart swell. Now it just made her want to cry, because those eyes weren't getting any brighter, they didn't reflect happiness in them. She wasn't making him happy. She was pretty sure she used to make him happy. He used to smile at her, he used to laugh at her silly jokes, he used to say cheesy things like about how he liked her smile or how he thought she was the most beautiful when she had no make up on and her hair was a mess. But now he looked at her blankly, he touched her as if he was painting a picture only he could see, he softly cried into the crook of her neck when he thought she wasn't paying attention. The man she loved was gone, and now the man she was starting to fall in in love with all over again was miserable. She could no longer make him smile, and she seemed to have the power to make him cry. 

A week ago he had told her she was the only one that mattered, he had kissed her frantically, passionately. He had held her close afterwards, when she had touched his face again he had let out a strangled sob. The realization had hit her fast and hard -- she had never seen him cry before. His eyes were much brighter when he cried. It was the only time when his eyes were bright nowadays. When he stopped crying, his eyes froze over, his eyes taking the shade of ice blue. Sometimes when he looked at her, she could swear she could feel a cold chill go through her. He tilted his head at her at times, looking at her as if she spoke a language he didn't understand. Everything about Wesley now made her feel like she was reading a book for the first time. He was like a book she thought she had read but when she looked at the cover a second time she realized that she didn't. It excited her at the same time it frightened her. She had known Wesley for close to ten years, how could she not know parts of him? Hadn't she been the one he had trusted everything with? If she didn't know who he was, then who was the person she had been in love with since the moment her book hit him on the head all those years ago? 

"I can hear you thinking." 

"Can you?" 

Wesley shifted his weight in the bed a bit, his eyes blinking a few times before completely focusing on Fred. He smiled lazily at her, earning a half smile in return. Moving some more in the bed, Wesley pulled himself in a sitting position and let his eyes rest on Fred's face. It had been a week since the first time he kissed her. It had been a week since he had lost Angel. Wesley could remember how he had come to Fred, he could remember how she rubbed his arms, stripped his wet clothes off him, he could remember how she gasped in surprise when he kissed her, he remembered how she melted against him, melted into him a second or two later. Angel had told him to stop fighting love, he had told him that he had love in Fred, but it seemed like Wesley was fighting more than he was before. Kissing Fred felt the same, her eyes looked the same, but there were things about her that would never be how he remembered them. He couldn't sit down and tell her about his life because it would just confuse her. His life even confused him now. Nothing was how it was, how it should be. How could he tell Fred that? 

How could he tell Fred anything about him without lying? It wasn't as if Wesley had never told Fred a lie. Wesley didn't have disillusions about him and Fred. They weren't Romeo and Juliet, they didn't have the sweetest relationship. Maybe they could have, but time hadn't been on their side. All Wesley had was years of the love he had for her, all he had was a few kisses and too many missed chances to count. He had tears of a love that never had it's chance. He had dreamless nights, visions and nightmares of Fred plaguing him. He had the demi goddess that had taken over Fred's body and unexpectedly gave him something in return, something he had learned to accept, maybe even like. Yes, he had Illyria in a way that no one had really understood. He had Fred and he had Illyria, who in fact had been the same person, but not. But how could he tell that to the sweet naive girl that moved all the way to England because they had fallen in love after she nearly gave him a concussion? 

"I now can hear _you _thinking." 

"It's a speciality of mine." 

Fred frowned, mimicking Wesley's earlier actions, she pushed herself up in a sitting position and reached out and touched Wesley's shoulder, feeling the bare skin underneath her hands. She liked doing this. She knew that she touched him too much, she wasn't sure if it made Wesley uncomfortable or not, but it reassured her he that he was here. Whether it was wrong or right, she enjoyed having Wesley with her. But when he looked past her the way he was now, she was afraid that this was all a dream. Letting out a sigh, Fred continued to run her fingers along the bare skin of Wesley's shoulder. Her fingers danced across the skin from his shoulder to his neck, pausing at his collar bone. She could feel his breathing coming in and out faster and she couldn't help the grin that passed her lips. At least some things about Wesley were the same. She could still make him lose control. She wasn't sure if she should be proud of that or not, but she was. She loved knowing that she got to him, even if it was nowhere near the way he got to her. He could smile at her and she was putty in his hands. 

"I want to know about you." 

Wesley blinked again, forcing himself through the enjoyable haze and back to the surface. Fred's voice cut through the wonderful feeling, the distinct feeling of warmth and maybe even a little happiness, and brought back the eerie cold that seemed to be his new best friend ever since the day he woke up at The Retreat. Perhaps before that, it had been around for a while, since the moment _that _Fred had died in _that _world. Wesley grabbed Fred's hand, stopping her from touching him, he watched the hurt looked that flashed in her eyes. He pursed his lips, his fingers twitching as if begging him to let her go, let her touch him, it made them both happy. But instead he moved her hand from his body and let it drop to a space in between them. Wesley's eyes bounced to the spot that he had let her hand drop to. He stared at it, as if it was the gap between them that would never go away. No matter how close he got to Fred, something always stood in the way. The small gap between them in the bed was just more proof. Struggling to get further and closer to Fred at the same time, Wesley looked back up and watched the hurt look continue on in Fred's eyes. It was funny how some things never changed. Fred's eyes always looked the same when they broke down. He could remember the look in her eyes too well when she broke down. Those last moments before Illyria took over. Fred had been so scared, asking why she couldn't stay-- 

"No." 

Fred felt her body jump at the sudden loud booming voice that cut through the silence that had started to wrap around her and Wesley. Fred looked around for a second before she realized that the voice had belonged to Wesley. "No?" Fred swallowed down the sob that threatened to escape. "You don't have to tell me, I just..." 

_Why can't I stay?_

"No." It was Wesley's voice again. Once again the shout scared both Fred and Wesley, but Wesley's eyes didn't hold the hurt and surprised look that Fred's did. Wesley's eyes held a frantic look. "No." Wesley whispered this time as he pushed away from Fred, when she reached out for him, he pushed her hand away much more forceful than he had intended to. He slipped out of the bed and stared at Fred with the hallow look that Fred had learned to hate. She never thought it was possible to hate something about Wesley, but she hated that look. 

"Isn't this what you want? I thought you wanted--" 

_I wish to explore this feeling._

"Don't be her. Be anyone but her." 

"Wesley, what are you--" 

"You're not her." Wesley grabbed his shirt off the ground and slipped it on and then started to search for his pants. A million thoughts swirled through his mind, but the one that was much louder than all the others was that he had failed her. He had betrayed the memory of Fred by allowing himself to-- he should have said no to her. 

Fred slipped out of the bed as quietly as she could, she walked over to Wesley and touched his arm, but this time when she touched him, he didn't calm down like he did the other times, instead he turned his eyes back to her. His eyes were a shade of blue she had never seen before, they were a dangerous look, a look that made her take a few steps back. "Wesley, I... I just wanted to know you. It feels like I don't know you." 

"You'll never be her." Wesley took steps toward Fred until she let out a squeak of surprise as her back hit the wall. Her wild, confused eyes met Wesley. Sweet brown eyes that were shining with the threat of tears shone at him, cutting through his anger, his memories of someone that looked like her. "Fred." Wesley reached his hand out, wincing when Fred flinched back and then looked shocked at her actions. "I have to go." 

"Wesley, no." Fred reached out for Wesley once more. "Don't go. Don't leave." 

"I'm not him."   
  
  


--------------------   
  
"I thought you two were," Rupert paused, took off his glasses and swiped at them with the edge of his shirt, a horrible habit of his he always did when he got nervous or uncomfortable. "ah, reaquainted with one another." Rupert smiled softly when Fred ducked her head and blushed. Rupert had known Fred for years, he had only truly warmed up to her a year or so before Wesley had gone to The Retreat. With Wesley gone, they had learned to depend on each other, they both shared memories of the man that refused to come back to them. 

"We," Fred coughed and shot Rupert a quick grin despite her mood. "were. We were. I don't know what happened. He looked at me as if he didn't even know me. One moment his eyes were soft and then they were cold and he was yelling no. He was going on about how I would never be her. I was scared." Fred stopped talking and covered her face with her hands. "That's horrible. How can I be afraid of him? He'd never hurt me." 

"I'm not sure who he is anymore. He hardly talks to me. I think he resents me a bit." 

"But why would he? Rupert," Fred removed her hands and brought one to rest on top of Rupert's. "you're his best friend. You two knew each other for years before the three of us ever met. How could he ever resent you? I remember the way you two used to talk. You two even used to finish each other's sentences. You were like..." 

"Brothers. Yes, I thought so too. But ever since he returned, he's been so different. Those scars... I remember when the only marks he had on him were cuts on his face when he shaved. I look at him now, I look at that scar on his throat, and then the scar on his wrist, and it just proves that I have no idea who he is. I could have visited him at the hospital but I didn't. I was terrified. Of him. Terrified that he wouldn't remember me. But then you told me he was back, I thought maybe he really was. But he never came back, Fred. He never used to say my name like it was a curse word, he does now. I've never felt out of place with him until recently." 

"He looks at me differently too. It hurts. He doesn't remember how we met. I hoped he would remember, that maybe somewhere along the line his memory would, I don't know, jump start back to life? It's only been two weeks but I feel like I failed him in some way. That's silly, isn't it? How could I fail him? He just seems so disappointed. He seemed so disappointed when he woke up at The Retreat. When he first looked at me, he was so happy, Rupert. But the moment he looked at his wrist, found out where he was, his attitude changed. The night he, ah, came to me, the night he kissed me, I thought he had finally remembered. But the words he spoke to me, the way he, um, touched me," Fred spoke the last part quickly, smiling when Rupert coughed and shifted on the couch. "it was as if it was for someone else. He told me I would never be her. He's in love with someone else." 

"Fred, don't be silly. He's been in The Retreat for the past six years, I highly doubt he had time to--" 

"No. I'm the wrong version of me." 

Rupert prided himself in being a very dignified man, but he couldn't help the indignified snort that came out in response to Fred's words. He couldn't believe what he was hearing at, Rupert looked down at his watch quickly, eleven thirty at night. It wasn't bad enough that Fred had called him crying hysterically, wailing on about how Wesley had left her, but now he was being forced to listen to rubbish like this. "You're mad, woman." 

"Thank you." Fred sniffed. 

"No, really. You can't tell me that you really believe his story about ho--" 

"You didn't hear how he talked about it. About these people he knew. I know what the doctors said, so don't even repeat it. I know, I know. He created that world due to his bad childhood, due to the traumatizing events of his father being an absolute jerk and his mother never being there for him and just letting what happened continue to happen, but I'm telling you it's not just a story to him. He has a life full of memories." 

"Of vampires and demons. What next, the boogey man?" 

"Souls." 

"Excuse me?" Rupert asked, arching up an eyebrow. 

"You forget some of the vampires had souls. Spike and Angel did." 

"Spike and Angel don't exist." 

Fred pushed herself up off the couch and rubbed at her forehead in frustration. She whirled around and stared at Rupert, but yet her brown eyes didn't manage to get as cold and intimidating as Wesley's blue eyes. Fred got the feeling that she was just amusing Rupert, that or frustrating him as well. "He's gone, Rupert. By the time I got my shoes on to chase after him, he was gone. So if believing in a few stories about vampires, hell dimensions and a bunch of people saving the world from all the things that go bump in the night, makes Wesley feel better, then I'm willing to buy a few crosses and some holy water." Fred let out a groan when Rupert snorted again. "I love him. I loved him the moment I dropped that book on his head. I loved him so much that all those years without you and him, I couldn't even be faithful to Charles because Wesley was all I thought about. I loved him so much I left everything behind and came here knowing fully well that I could get rejected and fail miserably. And I failed him, Rupert. What if it's real? What if all of it's real? Isn't he worth the risk of looking crazy?" 

Rupert frowned, the snarky response falling off the tip of his tongue and lodging itself at the back of his throat. "Fred, vampires... they don't exist. Wesley has had a very hard life and you know the doctors--" 

"I don't care what the doctors said. Six years and they didn't manage to help Wesley." 

"They helped. They did a lot for his mental state. If they didn't, he wouldn't be free to run away." 

"He doesn't smile. They failed him as much as we did. Now get off your ass and help me look for him."   
  
  


--------------------   
  
"Nice job, English." 

Wesley blinked, he groaned as he felt quick pangs of pain shoot throughout his back. He looked around his surroundings and let his head fall back down, wincing as more pain shot throughout his body. As if being crazy wasn't enough of a problem, he was now among the bums sleeping on a bench that smelled awful. Wesley sniffed, crinkling his nose at the smell before he turned his head to the voice. "Oh, it's you. This is surprising." 

"Well, you know I figured the big boss was just giving you a bunch of sentimental crap." 

"And you're here to give it to me real?" Wesley asked, scowling when his legs were shoved off of the bench. "Find your own bench, this one is mine. I don't want to talk. You're not even real, so the point of this is moot." 

"I find it amusing that you're still trying to be mister logical when you're fruitier than my grandma Marge." 

"I am not fruity." 

"That's what you said about your pansy ass." 

"My ass isn't pansy." 

"That's a matter of opinion." 

Wesley sighed and shifted on the bench, he looked down at his wrist and frowned. "I lost my watch." 

"It was broken anyway." He moved over to the left side of Wesley and sat down, grabbing the newspaper that was laying on the bench he opened the newspaper and turned to section C, pursing his lips as he scanned the first page. "Man, The Lakers aren't doing good at all. Can you believe that Divac signed with us again?" 

"Gunn, what do you want?" 

Gunn sighed and folded the newspaper and threw it toward the garbage can and twisted his body to face Wesley. "You're running. That's not a question, it's a fact. You think running is the answer? It's not. Running won't get you anywhere. Okay, that's a lie. It'll get you everywhere except the place you want to be." 

"She's gone, Gunn." 

"So are we."   



End file.
